


False Gods

by lilivi56



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23315857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilivi56/pseuds/lilivi56
Summary: The blood of the moon drips, painting a portrait of a new age as she becomes soaked with tears of men yearning to return to their former solitude painted in the clouds.
Kudos: 3





	False Gods

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this tie first time i played through bloodborne cos i'm not smart enough to do a lore hunt but i'm interested enough to interpret it in my own way so i hope it's not too off the mark!

Dark purple lips and unearthly mauve tongues become heavy with macabre words reminiscent of silent nights and sporadic laughter as the red moons rise, breaking the still light of a pale sky. A haunting symphony of violent sounds finds solace in the ears of mortal men, and the minds' attention is brought to the birthing of a new era. 

The ashes of the Phoenix will soon refuse to burn. 

Numerous eyes flick to the silhouette of a strangely familiar abnormality, phasing in and out of the minds of mortal men. Those who remember immortality will turn to face not an abnormality, but a memory. The sensation of having lost a loved one vanishes, ingrained unnoticed in our minds, and gone just as stealthily. A burden that was chosen to be carried has been lifted. 

Or perhaps that burden was placed back upon the Children of Men? Let them fall to their fate, sate their curiosity to an extent never before imagined. 

No longer will they wonder what happens after death.

Are any of these men prepared to witness the horrible truths the accursed and unholy masses have uncovered? Force yourself to find out, for you have no other choice but to stand firm even when your legs are weak and your mind is even weaker. 

Point the holes in your eyelids to the stars! 

Watch! They scatter from the sky, terrified to stay and suffer hopelessness from a mistake they did not make. Watch mortified, as the sky becomes a lightless void, inevitably filling with the painfully intrusive grotesqueness of mankind. 

The forests wish to burn themselves into ashes, and the oceans yearn to dry themselves into deserts. Do you have no shame, that you have put fear into the heart of your home?

Soon, harsh waves of satin-indigo painted nostalgia will contrast the silken crimson blood of those who remembered, bleeding out their sorrows for a god left un-worshipped and forgotten. Flesh- parted and weeping will hum what it thinks to be a song. Do you hear it too, imbibed with the feelings of an ethereal judgment soon to pass?

Woe to the Sons of Man! There is no greater burden to bear than to harm the stars.

A forgotten son stands sobbing, screeching violently— mouth painted red and raw. Blood drips from his gaping mouth as he bellows words of welcome to a horde of false gods, and a language we don't remember is understood clearly. Sickening flesh in his throat secretes bliss and a sharp pain numbed by blinded ideals of what we believe is love. 

Long ago, we heralded this madman as a saint, we recall. The serrated words cutting his lips and spilling his life-blood do not seem to be delusions of a lunatic anymore. 

"Behold, behold, behold! For they are here and they have created us anew! You know not what you seek, listen to the paths they have gifted to us!" 

And so, we listen; we obey.

His cries will reopen wounds, your mind whispers. You have a vague sense of remembrance of this moment, do you not? Beware the sense of security. You know that what you are hearing is not the song of a choir bringing praise to an entity of benevolence.

Have pity, child, and listen to the call. If you do not hear— or if perhaps you refuse, forget that you have never been afraid. You will be reminded that you are susceptible to things beyond your sight. 

A small candle will flicker at the edge of your mind, but you will not be able to remember lighting a candle. The only spark you can sense is the feeling that something has begun, and your blood runs cold. 

You cannot discern why, and you never will.

Soft bodies of cold flesh dance lightly on the ground, following the footsteps of things hidden— revealing secrets of words unspoken since the universe was in its youth. Signatures of footprints are scrawled into a warm, dry shore as though the storm in the ocean fighting with the shore was nothing but a mirage. 

Bodies seemingly flittering in and out of existence stay dry amidst the sky's abomination. 

Lightning strikes from the water and rituals of old are begun by those who were not around to listen; they did not heed the warnings from creatures which hid from the very truths the people were recovering.

The mental frivolity of humanity ignores the notion of ancient woes. 

Bright white cloaks and dull yellow teeth howl a secret once well known. We fought to forget, can't you see? The things you speak of will spread, and bring a ruinous glaze, colored with early morning fog upon the minds of the mortals. 

See? They already learn to whisper amongst themselves- "We are not quite human, let us become, let us begin."

And when these whispers grow into chants, arms raised to the sky in lust for paranormal homes once held upon a titled wing- the people will relearn the things kept well hidden in a place abandoned long ago. It grows into a hoard of the things lost, as weeping women pregnant with nothing but a corpse roam the hollow streets, wailing and clutching their red soaked gowns. 

Your time is at hand, the revelation of hymns used for worship shivers in the cornered areas meant for solitude. Are you prepared?

Why would you ask when you already know? 

What is this feeling of unease? What is the meaning of the sun refusing to rise? What is the ever-present burn in the pits of the stomach of man? 

When did we start forgetting the answers to the questions instinctively held by the innocent mind?

Those who are not quite at home are no longer aware that they were ever anything but themselves. A slight, unending trickle of mahogany scented bloodlust fills eager noses of creatures unaware that there is a danger ascending, hastily making a reply to wails of naive maidens uncovering the veil to a new world. 

When did it start being the new world? When did it stop being a time not spoken of? 

Do not underestimate the things they know, for they are not as new as your infantile minds were to believe. 

You would do well to remember— knowledge sits stagnant in the minds of infants, never quite leaving. As the child grows, it begins to ignore the constant feeling of important truths being forgotten. When it is an adult, it has forgotten that it holds unbroken awareness. 

All one needs is the question, a key to the answer which opens an enlightened mind. 

Morality vanishes, receding into the night whilst shrieking widows chase away remnants of cracked skin and broken fingernails lodged into sweet flesh. Ashes are left behind, rotting in a way that it should not.

What is it that we are forgetting? What did we remember? We do not know for we are who we always have been. 

Listen! Listen as horns sound in the ears of confused and treacherous masses! Feel the wind as it cools with an instinctual fear fitting itself in the hearts of the children of man! 

They begin to speak, scorching our ears with liquifying tongues with language and speech, garbled and maimed.

"We are the descending!"

"We are the ones who spawned you children of Cain, and we are the ones who brought the sickly maggots of madness into your homes, and we are the ones who left the sons of man to fester in the sound of their wriggling!"

The moon mourns for the night it has lost, and mistakes it cannot forgive. 

She never asked to be painted with blood, did she? No one remembers anymore, not even the moon herself. 

Not even the ones who painted her. 

Pray, pray, young ones! 

Let them bring your tombs to the light of those who speak in ethereal languages of stars, and bring your graves to the glow of those who listen to whispers of storms! They shall not forsake the ones who rest in the corrupted soil, nor shall they forget the soft children who rot in tandem with the core of nature itself. 

They are here not to save, but to have twisted mercy upon men who suffer from the weight all sinners must carry. 

The warriors that devoured time and soldiers who consumed begin screaming with the pain of knowing what they were never meant to learn. 

Feel the ink of enlightened illness in your bones and call yourselves mad. Cheer into the night that you are one and the same as the humans you crave to devour! It is an urge too painful for a vessel of little arcane knowledge to ignore.

Animal teeth— canine tongues sharper than the sound of the sun being hidden tear into the eager meat of the silent ones. They do not feel pain, for they are well enough in their mind to fear it no longer. 

Set the heads of the ones unchained on the guillotines you have prepared, and view the anger of the ones who do not bleed red— The ones who do not submit to the mortal views of death. 

Your feeble grim reaper dissipates with shrill voices of those released from their binds. 

Do not wonder where they came from and do not doubt their power; doubt their so-called "benevolence." 

Do not let them know where you are going, you cannot escape where they are from. 

When dark lipstick full of the macabre words of a silent night press sultry kisses to wounds of ones who mourn the moon, you shall not know the peace you had when you were a child. When those whose bodies do not quite belong begin to peel their sickly skin from their improperly mortal hands, you will feel soft songs of those quiet enough to hear the anger of forgotten gods who have been wronged. 

Robbed of power above flesh and poured over with a mangled version of divine prophecy, they will call for the little ones. 

So, when the songs of humans die out, and melodies of the scorned fill empty ears of the willing to listen— remember that nowhere is safe. 

Remember that the shadows themselves are full of teeth, and the clouds are shards of broken glass. Realize that the veins under your skin have always been crawling with sicknesses unnamed; with parasites never before seen. 

When soft chanting of the occult crowds becomes a roar of judgment, recall the truths that you left unfinished. 

Skin covered in gashes hosts broken fingernails pulling at quickly evaporating blood. Soft cries of newborn children become sobs of mothers who have lost everything and more. 

Remember to let them mourn, they were never ready for the things yet to come. 

The blood of the moon drips, painting a portrait of a new age as she becomes soaked with tears of men yearning to return to their former solitude painted in the clouds. 

"Behold, behold, behold! They have remembered, and they are reborn!"


End file.
